"Not because he looks like one, but
because the village idiot's name is Furman, and we have to have
some way of tellin' them apart."
A few minutes later, Charlie knocked resoundingly on Courtney's
door.
"Who is it?"
"It's me,--Charlie Webster. Got a nice surprise for you."
"Come in."
And in strode Charlie, followed by the tall stranger and the lank
Mr. Hatch.
Courtney, full dressed,--except that he wore instead of his coat
a thick blue bath gown,--was sitting at a table in front of the
small wood-fire stove, playing solitaire. A saucer at one corner
of the table served as an ash tray. It was half full of cigarette
stubs.
"Well, what the--" he began, and then, catching sight of the
stranger, scrambled up from his chair, his mouth still open.
"I thought you'd be surprised," said Charlie triumphantly. "This
is Mr. Blythe, Mr. Thane,--shake hands with each other, comrades.
When I told him you were so keen to see him and talk over old
times, he said slap-bang he'd come with me when I offered to bring
him up."
"I hope we're not intruding, Mr. Thane," said Blythe, advancing with
hand extended. "Mr. Webster assured me you were quite well enough
to receive--"
"I am glad you came," cried Courtney, recovering from his surprise.
"Awfully good of you. These beastly lungs of mine, you know. The
least little flare-up scares me stiff.
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